Rambling Josh

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, we are more than half-way through the first month of the New Year. There are those among us that seem to thrive on the constant acquisition of varying levels of guilt through the act of doing, or not doing, things they have been told they should, or should not, be doing. January is a banner month for such guilt. One way to avoid this guilt is to assume that those telling you what you should or should not be doing are generally acting in their own best interest, not yours.

The seeds of guilt originated with them, and were given to you. As the saying goes, “it is better to give than to receive”, but like a collect call we have the option of not accepting and leaving them with a busy signal. Assertively wielding one, or both, of your middle fingers in the direction of the guilt peddler is also a quiet and effective way to say, “Thanks, but no thanks, you keep it.”

I don’t watch much TV, commercials irritate me too much, and it is many of those commercials that are covertly peddling guilt to the masses. Do they want you to order their “new and improved” weight-loss pills because they have genuine concern for the health and well-being of all the citizens peering at the visually appealing physiques of the models they’ve hired to saunter around and hit beach balls? Judging from the commercials I have managed to endure, when people rid themselves of excess body weight, baldness, or toe fungus they have an urge to frolic about with beach balls.

Even when I had a full head of hair, I didn’t find playfully whacking beach balls around to be all that engaging of an activity. Due to their size and lack of weight, the wind plays havoc on them and you can’t throw them hard enough to raise a welt on anyone. About all their really good for is a floatation device, but seeing how “This Is Not To Be Used As A Floatation Device” is clearly stamped on it, you may feel guilty using it as such. Some may believe it better to drown guilt-free than to survive by means disapproved of by the writing on an otherwise useless object, don’t go boating with those people.

If guilt makes you a better person, a more productive member of society, and rids you of toe fungus, then by all means, soak it up. The masses are generally happy about the better self you’re parading around, but keep in mind that not all of us have toe fungus, and some of us that do really don’t care, and if we did care we would take care of it ourselves.

So yes, guilt can be useful in keeping us on the straight and narrow, but generally we have to divert from the straight and narrow a time or two to develop a reminder to ourselves that, “If I eat that pillowcase full of brownies I’m going to feel guilty and I won’t be able to fully enjoy my new beach ball this summer.”

Although, maybe you resolved to eat a pillowcase full of brownies each week this year, because you happen to really like brownies, and it’s your grandma’s old recipe, and you get to think of her with every single bite. In that case, enjoy, and return the beach ball to the bald guy with the toe fungus that sold it to you.

I have a confession to make. No, my hair is naturally this luxuriously grey and sparse, this don’t come in no bottle. What I must confess is that both of my children wear Birkenstocks or “hipster crocs” as I like to call them. You know, those odd sandals made in Germany that they ship across the pond as payback for WWII. Not the flip-flop, strap between your nasty lookin' toes variety that you get to shuffle around in for about three days a year in the stone’s throw from Saskatchewan kingdom of sleet and snow.

In bygone years, the first person I knew that willingly wore those cork and leather abominations (with socks of course) was my college biology professor. He was an ornithologist, that is, he spent his entire career studying birds. Not my cup of bird bath water, but I guess we all need something to spend our careers doing. I suppose when you study birds for a living you never really take the time to look down and question your choice of footwear. He was an odd duck. My apologies Dr. Tallman, I meant, “odd Anas platyrhynchos.”

Actually, I believe his ill-chosen footwear may have been my saving grace one very well timed icy, cold, blustery day. He was on his way to class to hand back the exams we had completed the week before, an exam I was quite confident I had scored a fair distance to the right of an “A” on. He arrived in class about ten minutes late, looking more disheveled than normal, with an arm full of rumpled up exams. He explained that he had slipped and fell in the parking lot, and when he hit the deck, Birkenstocks up, the exams had scattered in the wind and snow.

He wasn’t the most athletic individual, but he had managed to chase down a few of them. One had a tire track across it, and several had Birkenstock stomp marks on them. As he read the names off of the exams he had rescued, myself, and several other students that had dismal futures in the field of ornithology, hoped our exams were fluttering far away from campus. As it turned out, mine had in fact evaded the “Birkenstock stomp”, and I was given another chance to demonstrate just how little I knew about birds. The fact that I had inadvertently laughed out loud when he told the class what happened probably didn’t help my cause.

Back to my “Birk” wearing children. Thinking back, I came to the conclusion that every piece of clothing I’ve ever wore could only be described as “snappy”. So I’ve racked my brain retracing my children’s upbringing, trying to find an explanation for their poor taste in footwear. I guess there is that “Zubaz” fashion error I made…oh yeah, and those cut-off jean shorts I was so fond of. As the familiar ode to all that never should have been worn goes, “but they’re so comfortable.” Sometimes comfort should be overlooked.

Without things like Snuggies and Chia Pets under the tree we wouldn’t have anything for next year’s white elephant exchange. Gifts that keep giving, but are never truly received. I guess there are worse things than Birkenstocks, besides our children need something to regret when they get older.

I suppose this is my last column of the year…or is this December a leap month…I can’t keep all this stuff straight. Anyway, I would like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Safe travels, near and far, and remember to resist telling your in-laws how you really feel about them, because they feel the same way about you.

I hope Black Friday didn’t propel you headlong into any corners, posts, purses, or perfume displays. One would hate to be physically bruised and mentally dented this early in the holiday season. It’s a long limp to New Year’s. Long enough to work on a convincing sniffle, wheeze, and cough to ensure your very own bottle of champagne at the New Year’s celebration.

Aim your cough right and you could also make out like a bandit at the hors d’oeuvre table. The desired effect of this ploy lessens with each passing hour toward the midnight ball drop, and is completely disregarded once the slather of New Year’s kisses has dried up. Anything resembling food is fair game from that point forward, no matter how many times it’s been coughed on, kicked, or partially chewed.

My wife, the kids, and I went out for a Black Friday family stroll around the mall. The kids felt the need to ogle at stuff they don’t need, my wife was there to tell them why they didn’t need it, and I never pass up an opportunity to watch people being people. The mall on Black Friday loses its wild-eyed edge when you are simply there as an observer and have purposely left your cash and credit cards at home. That way if I lose my pants in some sort of mall mallei I’m not out anything…except my pants.

My wife had to work a bit on Thanksgiving, as many in the medical world do, so we had Thanksgiving at our house for any family that happened to be in the neighborhood. We had a houseful, and completely ignoring table manners, which are generally optional and often frowned upon, enjoyed visiting and laughing with mouths full of food and drink.

My father-in-law couldn’t make it this year, so I didn’t have to fight anyone for the grab bag of giblets hidden like a prize in about the only place a turkey without plumage could hide anything. Who was the first to think of “presenting” the nutritious and delicious offering of offal in such an odd and disturbing manner? A Columbian drug smuggler? An angry proctologist?

How does one find themselves at that end of the turkey assembly line? “Small hands, strong grip, excellent hand-eye coordination…Richter, come with me, I’ve got just the job for you. It pays a little more to offset the cost you’ll incur from psychotherapy, but just think of all the giblet loving smiles you’ll have a hand in.”

By my calculations, I believe we’re on course to finish our Thanksgiving leftovers a few hours prior to Christmas dinner. We plan on heading to Upstate North Dakota for Christmas this year so we can properly introduce ourselves to the newest edition of the clan. Congratulations to my brother Gabe and his wife, Marki, on the successful introduction of their second child into this world back on October 29th.

We’re all looking forward to meeting Perry Ardell Ellis and lending our voices and laughter to the soundtrack of his first Christmas. May you and yours enjoy the holiday season.

Our daughter, Sierra, left her teens behind her a few weeks back with the arrival of her 20th birthday. I’m not sure how she can be 20, seeing how I’m only 23, but then again I’ve never been all that handy with numbers. I was 23 when Sierra was born, and I do still “feel” like I haven’t strayed all that far from that age, although there is some greying fellow in the mirror who intently watches me brush my teeth and shave each morning. He seems harmless, a bit odd, but harmless.

Time is an odd thing. Relentlessly moving forward, yet fluid and timeless within the confines of our memories where time travel is very much a reality. If I could go back and chat with my 23 year old self, the new dad of a lovely little girl, what sage advice would I offer? Other than, “don’t wear pleated front pants and burn your muscle shirts” I’m really not sure what I’d have to say? The stock advice, “enjoy it, it goes fast” just about sums it up.

It does go fast, and I enjoyed every minute of all that has passed and look forward to all that there is to come.

It just feels odd when your child gets to an age that you distinctly remember being yourself. Most of my students are the same age as my daughter, which has also been an odd transformation for me, a transformation that has made me a better instructor. Feeling “fatherly” around my students has allowed me to get past any delusions of appearing “cool” and “hip”. Both of which, we are well aware, a dad cannot be. At least not simultaneously.

Being able to remember being 20 and having a daughter that is 20 can make a dad lie in bed and stare wide eyed at the ceiling at night. Knowing quite well that the Chrest and Ellis force is strong in that one, you hope against hope that some of your wife’s sensible genetics rise up when the sun goes down. Unlikely, but sometimes hope is all we have.

When Sierra was little, one of the things I dreaded most was the thought of a boyfriend. I dreaded this because generally speaking, boys are idiots. We…I mean they, are immature, crude, and lack the sensible foresight to realize that most every thought they have should be ignored…okay, I mean we. Then one day an odd thing happens, some of those boys grow up and seem to possibly be suitable enough to keep company with your daughter, and you grow up and realize that seeing her happy is all that really matters.

Being a dad is funny that way. You spend all those years holding them tight and then you realize that when you are able to let go a little they become closer than ever. Sierra is doing well at Montana State. Bozeman has been a good fit for her…hipsters, gypsters, cowboys, and odd artistic folks abound. It’s a long ways from Rapid City, but her room is just down stairs, and I sit in there from time to time when the distance feels too far.

Happy Birthday Sierra, see you at the 109 Club next year.

I had the opportunity to spend a few days in Charleston, South Carolina, for a conference this past week. It was my first time in Charleston and I found it to be a very enjoyable place to visit. Friendly, easy to get around on foot, good sea food, and most importantly, exceptional Irish music.

The lead singer, who was about 65 years old, was from Dublin Ireland and knew every old Irish song you could think of. He was accompanied by his son, who was about 25 years old and one of the finest fiddle players I’ve had the pleasure of listening to. I was told by the bartender that the lead singer is undergoing chemo for stage-four lung cancer but still manages to perform for four hours three nights a week.

Despite chemo for stage-four lung cancer he also managed to smoke a few cigarettes between sets, accompanied by his son as well. So it goes.

I celebrated Halloween dressed as a traveler this year. There’s never much by way of direct flights to Rapid City from anywhere so a taxi, three flights, and twelve hours after leaving my hotel in Charleston I made it back home. I’m not complaining, I enjoy traveling, and a full 12-hour shift of people watching and unavoidable eavesdropping is always entertaining.

If you spend any time in an airport it is only a matter of time before you will hear some poor soul telling an exhaustingly detailed story about their lengthy layovers, flight changes, and missed connections.

These stories all have two things in common. First, the one telling the tale seems to sincerely believe that their “plight of flight” is unique and tops all other airline travel stories of woe. Secondly, the poor soul that the story has been aimed at, may be knowingly nodding with a look of sympathy forcefully stretched across their face, but could sincerely care less and is patiently waiting for the story to stop so they can go sop up their misery with a Cinnabon.

Another thing you will be sure to hear are numerous cell phone conversations where it seems that the person on the other end is apparently a hard of hearing mime, because the person in your world has not paused their commentary for an excessively loud and annoyingly impressive length of time. You can almost hear the person on the other end of the line rolling their eyes and doing the “blab blab blab” thing with their free hand.

It was interesting traveling on Halloween. When else would you get to witness a pirate and a six foot four blue crayon try and put an irritated traveler at eases? United Airlines employees, Ken the Pirate and James the Crayon, did a fine job addressing the needs of the cranky traveler. Hard to be cranky talking to a pirate and a crayon.

During my five hours of moseying about the airport in our nation’s capital, I saw a very tall man that looked very familiar. He was browsing through the menu outside of an airport restaurant when the host asked him, “You ever play basketball?” I watched as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, a 19-time NBA All-Star and NBA Hall of Famer glanced from the menu to the host and back again. He just sort of shook his head slightly, sat down the menu, and walked off.

When he turned to walk off we briefly made eye contact. I smiled and nodded but he seemed to have an “I hope nobody recognizes me…I just want to eat” look in his eyes. So, I let the big man be, and went back to watching Ken the Pirate and James the Crayon address customer complaints.

Happy travels.

I can remember many a car ride, short and long, where I sat in the backseat and watched my dad in the rearview mirror as he navigated one of the many four-door “boats” we had growing up. Sometimes to ensure that a well-deserved punch to the scrawny thigh of my brother would go undetected, but more often than not, just to watch him. When you’re a kid you fail to take into account that sound does travel, and that a parent knows the distinct sound of a sibling being “corrected” for any number of offenses, real or imagined.

Having spent a couple of tours in the trenches of parenthood now, I have heard, and ignored, such behavior occurring directly behind me as we traveled here and there. I knew the punishment occurring was probably justified, just as I’m sure my dad did, and since it is socially acceptable for siblings to tussle, it relieves a parent of having to explain themselves in a court of law. It’s like hiring a bounty hunter without them knowing they’ve been hired. The bounty hunter is quietly given an extra ration of candy at the next gas station for their troubles.

When all was quiet in the seatbeltless domain of our backseat travels I would watch as my dad’s blue eyes would dart about, scanning the ditch and road for anything that dare challenge the forward progress of thousands of pounds of steel and chrome. I always felt safe with my dad behind the wheel, and still do for that matter, and I always wondered what he was thinking. He was never real chatty while we traveled, never really seemed to care what was on the radio, just seemed content to drive. Content to safely get us wherever it was we happened to be going.

One time in particular stands out in my mind. I was thirteen. It wasn’t a long trip, only a few miles, more of a ride I suppose. It wasn’t a ride any of us wanted to take and it wasn’t to a place any of us wanted to go, but it was a ride that I’ve come to see as a part of life, more accurately, a part of the consequences of sharing in one’s life.

I sat in the comfy couch like backseat of our massive maroon 1978 Lincoln Towncar, shoulder to shoulder with my siblings. It was quiet in the car, no bickering, no pinching or poking, just quiet. Like many times before, I watched my dad in the rearview mirror, only this wasn’t like any of the times before. I watched his eye’s, watched and wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling, as we waited for the funeral procession to leave the church and take his father, my Grandpa Fritz, to his final resting spot north of town.

I of course didn’t ask him what he was thinking or feeling, those aren’t things boys ask fathers all that often. Things we often times don’t know how to ask. I could see he was sad, but there was strength in his sadness as well, a strength that let me know that it was alright to be sad sometimes.

I don’t know if he knew I was watching, he knew I was sad, he knew we all were, and he let us know, without saying a word, that although Grandpa was gone we were still a family, and everything was going to be alright.

You can learn a lot from the backseat when you have someone like my dad at the wheel.

Happy Fall y’all. It seemed that the heat of summer extended its reach further along the calendar than normal this year. Then again, considering my family and the influence that the village of Lignite has on a person, I’m quite confident that I’ve never possessed a sound judgement of “normal” so I’ll just assume this sort of thing happens on occasion.

What I do know is that the parts of my person that have been relegated to a swampy existence since the arrival of the summer swelter are reviling in the cool fall breeze. Growing up in the southern suburbs of Saskatchewan does not effectively acclimate one to extended periods of swelter, and when there is unceasing swelter, it generally prompts bouts of swelter induced anger (I just wanted to see how many times I could squeeze “swelter” into one sentence).

You ever get stuck on or struck by a word? You’ve heard it, seen it, or said it countless times and then one day for no particular reason it just sounds odd? Odd, and sometimes downright funny, and you find yourself saying it out loud, over and over, and laughing, over and over? No? Me neither, just checking. How about “gulag” or “mollycoddle”? Incidentally, there’s quite a chasm (another fun word) between gulag and mollycoddle. I say “show hall” from time to time and people seem to find that odd and/or entertaining. Hoity-toity big city folk are a strange bunch.

Speaking of odd and/or entertaining, I had the opportunity to visit with Jason Hysjulien, who along with his wife, Marsha, took over ownership of the 109 Club in Lignite a few months back. Here’s what I learnt.

History of 109 ownership?

“Oldest building in Lignite, built in 1911. It was originally a pool hall, barber shop, and living quarters. Went through a few hands in the past 100 or so years, but most recently; Ray Moritz from 1951 to 1967, Evelyn Byrud from 1967-1983 (Incidentally, she gave the name 109 based on a horrible bowling score, for years one could win a drink at bowling alley for rolling a 109), and Laurie and Maurine Chrest 1983-2015.”

*What motivated you to become owners? *

“Autonomy. I love to BS, but not a big drinker. Like to see people having a good time. In any small town this is where everyone congregates. Marsha has worked for years in this business and now we have a chance to do for ourselves.”

Any changes in store for the 109 or sticking with the tried and true?

“Same name, everyone knows this as the 109. Same service. Same clean restrooms. Maureen and Laurie ran such a great place for so many years that we just basically don’t want to screw it up. Changes? Live music on demand. Not a big hunter. These head mounts really creep me out! People may see a gradual evolution as this place takes on a look more reflective of our tastes and interests.”

Was this something you had been pondering for a while? “Yes, for years. Quite frankly the ever reaching arm of Big Brother gave me much pause and trepidation concerning this endeavor. The days of letting Swede Edwards drive home at 25 mph are over. I’m working on a flop house.”

Anything else you would like to add?

“I have always loved how this bar, and it has a reputation for being hard to leave. When I lived in Lignite and had somewhere to be and needed off-sale, I would sometimes drive to Kenmare as it would take less time than trying to get out of this place as there was always someone buying you a round. It always has been, and will continue to be, the kind of place where you want to take a date, or your family. Good crowd, good times, no riffraff.”

“No riffraff”? That’s all up to interpretation. Enjoy the lovely, cool fall breeze before things turn ugly and frigid (sorta like that date you took to the crop judging finals in high school).

The first few weeks of the new school year are behind us, and all the beginning of the year hubbub we must endure has finally passed. Freeing the teachers to teach, the students to learn, and the parents to go to work without the constant worry of a free roaming teenager on their mind.

The faculty and students can now enter a meeting or a classroom without somebody saying, “Why don’t we go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves.” A sentence that beings with “why” is generally meant to be a question in search of an answer. “Why don’t we go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves?” Because, nobody wants to, and those that do want to have already made everyone painfully aware of their existence, and will continue to do so at each and every meeting until an unfortunate accident befalls them.

I cringe in faculty meetings every time I see a new face because I know a mass introduction to the newbie is inevitable. To remedy my cringe I find it useful to make stuff up when it’s my turn to stand and report my biography to a stranger. A stranger whose brain flat-lined six people ago and is now just smiling and nodding and thinking, “One of his sideburns is longer than the other” as I dutifully report.

With the passing of the first few weeks we have also passed the first of many breaks to come. We had an enjoyable Labor Day weekend at our cabin in Montana. Sierra and her boyfriend were able to swing over from Bozeman and hang out with us for a few days of “off the grid” cabin time. My father-in-law, Bernie, and his brother, Tony, made the trip from Rapid City with my wife, our son, the dog and myself.

Our cabin has no electricity, no phone, and no cell service. It is one of my most favorite places to “just be” and it was fun having a cabin full of family ages 16 to 79 enjoying one another’s company without the many distractions we have at our fingertips in our so-called “connected” world.

We played a lot of cards, read a few books, cut a little wood, starred at the flickering light of the fire, and tipped our heads skyward to a blanket of stars with the coming of each night. Actually, the rest of the gang played a lot of cards, I took on the duty of starring at the flickering light of the fire. Sitting in front of the fire, listening to family laugh and chit-chat over a card game under the low hiss and gentle glow of a lantern…I smiled, and quietly thanked the cabin for that moment.

Now we’re off. Off and running with another school year, and already it seems that the plate that looked so orderly and sparse a few weeks ago is now an overflowing mess of this, that, and another thing. So it goes.

I wonder what the cabins up to? Why don’t we all go introduce ourselves.

Well friends, yet another long held dad duty has been quite literally kicked to the curb (or at least confined to the driveway). For the most part my parental taxi service sign has been flipped to “Off Duty” now that our son, Jackson, has managed to attain the legal right to operate a motor vehicle. He can now go where he must, when he must, and not have to endure NPR or Irish music while en route. Previously, he was limited to training excursions in and around Lignite as a student of the “Grandma Joann PT Cruiser School of Swervology”.

As I look back, the road from there to here is littered with the vestiges of many such dad duties that I once was counted on to perform. All of which I cherished and miss, except of course, the clean-up of bodily discharges great and small.

How such cute little people can produce and release such volumes of biohazard is truly a mystery. They’re like little dirty bombs with erratic and unreliable detonators. They should be rolled around in tightly secured 50 gallon drums instead of minimum security strollers…drums with a slot to slide the occasional balloon animal and Dilly Bar into and a few air holes punched in the lid of course.

What have my dad duties dwindled too? Providing unsolicited and unheeded advice? Charitable donations of various amounts for unspecified items of interest (food, because he “wasn’t hungry” three minutes prior when we ate at home)? Fuel for and general maintenance of his wheels of freedom (by “general” I mean anything that requires no mechanical knowhow beyond that which can be “fixed” with a chainsaw and/or a hammer)?

I did get the opportunity to share some pent up fatherly wisdom with him recently while doing a bit of back-to-school clothes shopping a few weeks back. Life altering advice, such as how to decipher the sizing label on pants and dress shirts to achieve proper fit and socially acceptable appearance in the adult world.

I don’t pretend to know what is deemed “socially acceptable” apparel in the teenage world, nor do I have any intention of finding out. I do, however, reserve the parental right to point, laugh hardily and obtain photographic evidence for my grandkids to point and laugh hardily at…in the very, very distant future. Such is the sorted fashion circle of life, and probably has been since the first angstful cave teenager shunned the wearing of the drab, but sensible, wooly mammoth loin cloth in favor of the more hip and trendy saber-toothed tiger tunic.

As I mourn the loss of yet another dad duty I do look forward to whatever is needed of me in the future. As a dad, that’s what I’m here for, that’s what I will always be here for. I have no plans of signing up for the mission to mars or traipsing off to any far-flung places here on earth to find myself. I found myself when my children were born and have found that being a dad suits me just fine…even at an ever increasing “on-call” status.

On that note, I’d like to send a “Happy Birthday” up Lignite way to the man that taught me how to be a dad, and remains on-call for us each and every day. Thanks Dad.

The Burke Central All-School Reunion has come and gone, leaving fond memories of good times with old friends in its wake. Thinking back over the events of the last couple of days it’s all sort of a blur of familiar faces in familiar places accompanied by a soundtrack rife with the buzz of conversation and laughter.

Groups of varying sizes could be seen scattered about Main Street during the street dances, catching up with the goings on of former classmates and friends. Some people could be seen migrating amongst the groups, intermingling and exchanging a few pleasantries, and then moving along to another cluster of familiar and, at times, unfamiliar faces.

Some were less migratory and seemed to enjoy the company of a select few over mass serial intermingling. There’s always those that we find it easier to visit with for reason’s we may not know. Comfort and commonalities from shared time and experiences I suspect to be a major contributor to who we choose to jaw wag with.

It seems as though when with those we are most comfortable with a constant conversation flow isn’t necessary and long moments of silence don’t carry any uncomfortable unspoken connotations. In depth conversation with everyone isn’t always necessary, or possible. For some a nod and a smile in passing is enough of an acknowledgement to get you by until the next reunion.

The next reunion? That’s the last idea anybody wants to entertain at this moment, but I hope there is a next reunion. Not for a few years or five, but sometime. I enjoyed playing a small part in the reunion planning committee and would like to thank all of those that played much…much larger roles in ensuring the success of the reunion. Their organizational skills and attention to detail was impressive, and made the weekend festivities flow seamlessly.

I am proud to be a graduate of Burke Central because I feel that as a graduate of Burke Central I am in the company of a lot of good people. Burke Central is a good school that has managed to endure in the face of many changes, great and small. It has managed to endure change and succeed because of the dedication and devotion of many caring faculty, staff, and board and community members that seem to always hold the best interest of the students first and foremost.

As a student I took this for granted. When such an environment is all you have experienced it is hard to see how good you have it. Especially when you’re armpit deep in the rarely real horrors of teenage life. After being out and about in the world of education for a few years I have come to fully appreciate my experience at Burke Central. Appreciation and gratitude seem to increase with age.

To all those, past and present, that have and continue to make educating the young people that walk the halls of Burke Central a priority in your life I thank you. Summer’s over…you’re on.